


blessed be in halone's grace

by 님 (nymmiah)



Series: cunicular hope [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aromantic Character, Character Study, Cultural Differences, Developing Relationship, Headcanons on Ishgardian Culture, Healthy Relationships, Learning To Communicate, M/M, Male Viera Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Not Canon Compliant, Polyamory, Touch-averse Warrior of Light, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:41:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25336303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymmiah/pseuds/%EB%8B%98
Summary: Aymeric de Borel comes to many realisations concerning the Warrior of Light, this strange courtship tied with Haurchefant Greystone, and himself.Sequel tohalone smile upon thee.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Haurchefant Greystone, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light, Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light
Series: cunicular hope [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1831447
Comments: 39
Kudos: 59





	1. Askance

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to this: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25279930 .  
> This entire thing was just sparked by a need for the boys to actually communicate!  
> Also I'll do my best to write explicit smut this time. :/ ~~Let's hope I don't end up deleting everything out of self-hate.~~

The Warrior of Light was not an easy lover. He had known this from the start. The Warrior enjoyed not the simple comfort of a lover’s touch, nor did he speak much. He preferred the silence of one’s company in the same vicinity, and he preferred the quiet intimacy of journeying together to the same destination. He accepted not material gifts, save for the occasional sweet, and had no interest in the usual trappings of courtship.

For all that he knew this, in truth, the Warrior was as enigmatic now as he was when they had first encountered one another.

What Aymeric also knew was that the Warrior detested the feeling of hands upon him, of skin pressed against skin--and yet here he was, allowing Aymeric to place his hands upon his face and to cradle it within his palms.

Reverently, he stroked his thumb against the curve of his cheek, following the sharp bone to his temple.

The sharp intake of air made Aymeric pause in his touch, but the viera remained still within his grip. There was a furrow between his brows, and the slightest hint of discomfort making its path upon his countenance.

Aymeric let go of the Warrior, allowing him to draw back. Yet, the Warrior moved not, opening his eyes to stare at Aymeric with eyes so full of levin that he could hardly discern what emotion he was feeling.

“--Tell me, my friend, is touch so repelling a thing to you?” Aymeric asked, when the viera failed to speak. “If so, why do you allow me to hold you in such a way?”

The Warrior blinked slowly, the fall of his lashes momentarily shielding his paralysing stare. "It is too much." He murmured finally, a shy whisper in the dark. He spoke nothing more, leaving an enigmatic remark as the sole answer to Aymeric's question.

Too much… What exactly could the Warrior of Light mean when he said such things?

* * *

Haurchefant, too, claimed ignorance of what it could mean when Aymeric sought him out in the morrow, shrugging with a peculiar expression upon his face.

"He has ever been shy to the touch. He stands apart from most men, and shies away from even proximity. Mayhap he means that he is overwhelmed by it," Haurchefant proposed, a thoughtful expression settling upon his countenance. "He does seem to be far more at ease now than he was in the past. At the beginning of our… ah, acquaintanceship, he would tolerate not even the casual touch of fingertips to his arm."

Aymeric let out a pondering sound, turning his gaze to stare out of the window. 

As ever, the wintery landscape of Coerthas outside of Camp Dragonhead raged with a blizzard leaving the sky blotted out by snow and darkness.

"Did you not once tell me that viera had a completely different society to our own?" Haurchefant asked. "Remind me, what comprises the culture to which our Warrior belongs?"

Aymeric glanced over at the lord. "The men live separate to the women, and are much lesser in number. They live solitary lives, from what I understand, and protect their lands from any intruders. They are removed from the matriarchal groups at a young age, and then spend the rest of their four centuries of life in the jungles, only occasionally returning to their original clan to propagate their numbers. Their people are warriors in their own right, able to repel intruders from their lands both Garlean and Dalmascan."

Haurchefant's eyes were wide with wonder, and he had seemed to hear naught of Aymeric's explanation save for one thing.

"Four centuries…" The knight of House Fortemps echoed. "How many seasons do you think that the Warrior has seen? He remembers naught of it, but he could be anywhere between our own age and four hundred summers."

Aymeric was silent in contemplation of such a thing. He had never considered it, but it was true: the Warrior of Light could have lived for centuries prior to his arrival in Eorzea.

"How many years has he spent alone? It is not so surprising then, that he would be so repelled by society. A man who has spent decades alone would find the company of others overwhelming, would you not agree?" Haurchefant continued, his comments surprisingly insightful. "It makes it far more meaningful that he allows touch the way that he does now."

"Indeed it does," Aymeric agreed.

* * *

The Warrior sat upon the plush carpet before the fireplace, his silent and still stance making him appear as if a sculpture. There was a solemnity that lingered in the air around him that demanded reverence.

It was for that reason that Aymeric lingered by the doorway, hesitating to walk in and disturb the Warrior's meditation.

Aymeric watched as Haurchefant moved forth, joining him with neither dignity nor care for what image he presented. The lord had a look of delight that the viera cared not to look at, but the avoidance did nary to dampen Haurchefant's joy.

"I should have known that you would ensconce yourself in the warmest place in the keep," Haurchefant exclaimed, mirth lacing the edges of his voice. He had tucked his legs under him in a deceptively light manner, for the greaves of his armour was sure to squeeze and cut into his skin most uncomfortably. "How was your march around the wasteland? Dreadfully uneventful? Or did you run into some manner of hostile creature and conduct a most glorious fight without us?"

The Warrior's expression had turned ever so soft at the corners of his eyes. He was lovely, framed by the warm glow of the flames in the fireplace. He was lit with a nimbus of embers, and it was hard to resist the invitation that lay implicit in the curve of his legs so stretched before him. Aymeric took steps to join them, even as the viera spoke.

"Cold."

The comment was unsurprising. The blizzard from the morning yet raged, and the Warrior of Light had left the relative comfort of the keep to walk through it regardless, ignoring the questions and advice of the guards to stay within the stone walls of the Camp.

Aymeric took the opportunity to loosen the armour covering his legs, ignoring the look that it garnered from Haurchefant. He could feel the tips of his ears burn with the subtle sense of embarrassment elicited by the sly tilt of the lord's lips, cunning and far too provocative for what the action was supposed to be: an innocent removal of an encumbering piece he wore.

"Allow me to warm you then, my friend," Haurchefant remarked shamelessly.

Thick steel jambeaux fell to the floor with a loud clang, and Aymeric stifled the urge to curse when it caused both Warrior and knight to look at him. He made as if the act were intentional, making no comment nor apology for the lapse in concentration, moving to join them on the carpet.

So sat on his calves by the fire, he felt as undignified as a child once more, a child who cared not for the greater comfort of cushions and preferred the indolence of laying upon the ground.

The viera turned his gaze back to Haurchefant, who had sat back to lean his weight upon his palms.

"Mayhap Ser Aymeric has the right idea of it! Armour can be so cumbersome, especially in the comforts of one's own quarters," Haurchefant stated aloud.

However, instead of reaching for his own armour, the Lord reached for Aymeric's, his nimble fingers finding the latches and leather that kept the armour so fitted upon his form. Aymeric could feel his fluster return, alarmed by the initiative and intimacy that Haurchefant so boldly took.

"Ser Haurchefant! There is no need for your help!" Aymeric was quick to rebuke, though not before the maddening elezen was able to loosen the pauldrons from his shoulders and his hands now lay flat against his chest.

The innocent expression upon the man's face did little to convince Aymeric, and by the snort that came from the Warrior, the hero wasn't either.

"I merely wished to secure the comfort of my most honourable guests," Haurchefant remarked lightly, surrendering his touch by raising his hands and backing away. The glint in his eye was unapologetic. "By all means, you may continue to undress yourself with thine own hands if that is what you should prefer, Lord Commander. Such an act would certainly fulfill some manner of fantasy conjured by wandering eyes."

With such a remark phrased in that exact manner, Aymeric found himself caught between two feelings: a discreet outrage that he had been outmanoeuvred by the lord, and intrigue sparked by the interest so implied in his idle words.

Ere he could decide his emotions, Haurchefant was quick to shed his own armour, placing them to the side with an irreverence that was most calculated. Each move of his arms drew the eye to him. Tossing aside his gauntlets last, his eyes were bright as he gazed upon the Warrior. Clad in nothing more than the soft wool of his gambeson and trousers, he looked almost indecently underdressed.

“My, Ser Aymeric, you look discomfited.”

The Warrior was seated before him, patient and quiet as he always was. Aymeric hesitated, before quietly admitting, “I am.”

“Are we not in courtship with one another?” Haurchefant then asked, all slyness and cunning having slipped from his features to leave naught but an honest gaze upon his face. “I would like to hear why you are so uncomfortable with this.”

He spoke lightly, acting as if he weren’t speaking of things that Aymeric hadn’t considered in the slightest; hadn’t the terms, as sparsely discussed as they had been, been that they would court the Warrior, with full knowledge and acceptance of the other’s amour for the viera?

So caught by his confusion, Aymeric was silent for a moment.

The Warrior reached out, placing a large hand upon his knee. The touch, uncharacteristic as it was, startled him from his silence.

“--I was under the impression that we… by which I mean myself and you, Ser Haurchefant, were each courting the Warrior.”

Haurchefant nodded slowly, a frown crossing his features to depict confusion. “You are correct. Is that what discomfits you so?”

“No, it was not that particularly." Aymeric paused again, considering how best to phrase his thoughts in a manner that was neither accusatory nor convoluted. “It was caused by your words earlier. You and I are not courting,” Aymeric said finally, bluntly.

Haurchefant’s expression cleared, and he smiled. “Ah, but are we not? You and I are tied in our ardour for the Warrior--and that makes us equally connected, does it not?”

By the Fury--what manner of logic was this?

“You…” Aymeric began, unable to summon the words to explain just how little he understood Haurchefant’s words.

Courtship was--intended to be between two lovers, a covenant between two souls in which it was promised that they would be true only to one another. Of course, in practice, it didn’t always hold true to this ideal. Even his own courtship felt as if a mockery to the very ideal of courtship. To allow himself to fall into this strange tangle with both the Warrior and Haurchefant, in which the Warrior would be expected to be true to _two_ persons; that Haurchefant should suggest that Aymeric would court him as well, at the same time… it felt as if he were steadily becoming the very image of debauchery and vice.

“Love is not a singular thing, my Lord Commander,” Haurchefant reminded with a smile. “Tis possible to love more than one at a given time--and you, Ser Aymeric, have proven yourself capable of such ardent love for all of Ishgard. Deny yourself not the opportunity to allow yourself to love more than one at a time. I would argue that it is most unnatural to ignore that which you love.”

It was this very argument that would lead to the birth of bastards--Haurchefant’s own birth was the result of such a thought.

Aymeric turned his eyes from Haurchefant’s countenance, looking instead to the viera. His hand had not shifted from his knee, and the patience upon his visage was yet present.

Silence settled long enough that the Warrior seemed to take it as a cue to speak, as if their silence was prompted as a desire to hear his thoughts. “Think less, de Borel,” the Warrior said firmly. He pulled his hand from Aymeric’s knee finally, and he turned his head to face the fireplace.

“If you are worried about such a relationship being indecent or base--then consider it this way,” Haurchefant said, when Aymeric failed to respond, so caught up in his thoughts. “It would not be anything more than what we expect from the Warrior himself. We ask of him to love more than one when we initiated this courtship of ours. I ask of you if you would be capable of the same.

“--Ah, but you need not come to a decision at this very moment,” Haurchefant allowed graciously, smiling. “And this discussion has become far too serious for one sparked by merely removing one’s armour! Take repose, Ser Aymeric, and remove your gauntlets at the very least. It is late, and your back would surely appreciate you removing your chestplate.”

Aymeric shook his head. “I think it would be better if I take repose elsewhere,” he said distantly. “I… I would like to think upon this, alone.”

Rising to his feet, he took hold of the greaves he had only just removed. "Excuse me, Haurchefant." With a gentle apology directed to the Warrior, he turned to leave the room, leaving behind the Warrior of Light and his lover.

Behind him, even as he closed the door behind him, he could hear Haurchefant murmur things to the Warrior.


	2. Foolish

In the wake of Aymeric’s departure, Haurchefant’s countenance had been filled with sympathy.

“--Mayhap I had been far too heavy-handed in this matter. It is obvious that the Lord Commander had been discomfited, and I should have been not so aggressive in my pursuit,” he said quietly, eyes darting between the doorway and the Warrior as if expecting some wayward comment from the Warrior’s part.

The viera remained silent.

Haurchefant continued to muse and to mull over the happenings, using the Warrior’s silence as a sounding board of sorts. The viera cared not; he merely listened and contemplated the stricken expression upon Aymeric’s countenance as Haurchefant had touched him so freely.

The Lord Commander was a man of calculated action, ruled not so by passion. His inclusion in this entangled courtship of theirs had been birthed from an impulse, a whim so characteristic of Haurchefant.

As a result, there had been no protocol in place, no agreements nor disagreements having formed this contract between them. It was not unreasonable to assume that that uncertainty had been one of the things that had driven the man from the room. Aymeric de Borel seemed a man used to, and expecting, some manner of structure in his relationship.

The Warrior watched as Haurchefant shook his head with a gusty exhale, resignation momentarily painting his features in a regretful light.

“Let us put this matter out of mind; Ser Aymeric shall have the time he so deserves to think on this!” He remarked. “Now you, my friend, I shall request of you things most taxing. Would you please indulge me the honour of knowing your thoughts?”

Haurchefant’s visage was now alight with a smile, gentle and coaxing. In the light of the fireplace, his powder-blue hair seemed white, and the curve of his cheek was cast in shadow. He had reached a hand out in offering, asking silently for the viera’s own.

“Thoughts on what?” The Warrior asked, when silence lingered long and that hand wavered not a whit. 

“You have been frugal with your words since the beginning of our relationship,” Haurchefant explained. His hand finally dropped onto his lap. “And for all that you show remarkable ability to speak without words, as you have seen with Ser Aymeric--words must be spoken aloud to prevent any form of miscommunication. I would not like to have misunderstood you.”

“That explains not what you want me to speak on.”

The knight inclined his head. “--Ah, then you’ll have to forgive me. I will need to explain the context for you to fully appreciate what I wish to know your thoughts about.”

As if the Warrior needed a warning that Haurchefant would speak endlessly, using his flowery words to draw eternal circles around the subject he hesitantly broached. After the time they had spent together, he had learnt to expect such wordiness.

“You’ve always been reticent, my friend, and you’ve made it clear that you dislike proximity even from the closest of your confidants. Your fellow Scions are subject to none of the familiarity that Ser Aymeric and I are now granted, for all that they are  _ objectively _ much closer to you than we.” Haurchefant said thoughtfully. “I had yet to see you speak more than three words to the young lord Alphinaud, and yet you would spare full sentences to me upon my request. In fact, I still find it utterly miraculous that you’d entertain the notion of allowing courtship! Needless to say, you would have owned my heart regardless of your acceptance of my suit, but ah, but I am digressing.

“You see, just this morn, the Lord Commander posited a question most interesting to me… He divulged to me something which you had said to him, that touch was ‘too much’, and had left no other comment to explain what you had meant by that statement. What did you mean by that?”

Haurchefant truly did speak too much.

The Warrior sat back upon his haunches.

Hesitantly, he reached out to place his hand upon Haurchefant’s. His palm was like fire where their skin touched, a point of singular awareness that near ached with how it sparked and burned against his skin.

Haurchefant had taken a sharp breath in by the unexpected initiative, and a tentative smile began to creep back upon his countenance. The sharp, burning sensation only grew as Haurchefant moved to take hold of his hand, his fingers curling around to capture him--and it was a cage of levin, shocking him in place.

The viera clenched his jaw.

How could one explain the sheer awareness of touch that he had? How even the slightest brush of skin upon his own naked skin near burned from the intensity of the sensation? That when unexpected, touch was as heated as slag from a furnace? Even now, the prolonged touch grew intolerable, akin to the swell of a localised storm that howled ever more loud and formidable with each second that passed.

The patience in Haurchefant’s countenance allowed him time to think on the words to speak that would adequately explain his aversion to contact.

“This…” He said finally, indicating their joined hands. “It feels like a steel trap.”

Haurchefant’s eyes, bright and blue, were wide. “Metaphorically, Warrior mine?”

“It bites into my skin. It burns like aether, and it leaves wounds behind that are not easily forgotten,” the Warrior stated, his words disjointed as he attempted to piece together his thoughts.

He was unpracticed in this act of verbalising what words came to mind in a manner that would make sense to those listening to him. He preferred his silence to this hesitant conjuring of useless words.

“Touch lingers ‘pon my flesh. It hurts.”

Wonder and horror both passed over the knight’s countenance, and as a python’s strike he pulled his hand away from the Warrior’s. The leylines of his hand ever-pulsed over his skin.

“It hurts?” Haurchefant repeated.

The Warrior thought it over. “No. I am used to pain. But mayhaps it was the wrong word to use. It… overwhelms.” He clenched his fist, his knuckles whitening from the force of his grip. It did naught to wipe the insistent ghost of Haurchefant’s touch.

“I… believe that I begin to understand,” Haurchefant said quietly, though by the furrow of his brow, the viera doubted his words. “It is too much for you to be touched so casually. Mine apologies, Warrior--I hadn’t known how much I have been asking from you with my frivolous touch. Tis the contact with naked skin that does this, is it not?”

Without waiting for the Warrior’s response, Haurchefant moved to grab the gauntlets he’d so carelessly discarded, pulling them back on.

“I shall promptly commission hand coverings better suited for this purpose--but as of now, this shall have to make do,” Haurchefant stated firmly, some manner of conviction having returned to his countenance. A smile had returned to his features, and he held his gloved hand out. “Prithee, may I have your hand my dearest friend?”

With this shift in their courtship, the Warrior found himself inundated with Haurchefant’s touch. Even as they sat by the flames and the night made its slow ascent into day, those gloved hands left his body not once.

Starting from his hands and his wrists, Haurchefant spared no pains in his careful exploration of his body. The roughened tips of the leather traced his arms and his neck, and the palm of his gauntlet cupped the swell of his cheek in a manner that would have been tender had his hand been unsheathed.

It was, admittedly, far more tolerable than his naked touch had been. He remained far more still than he had in the past, each point of contact a muted spark rather than the unbridled levin of past.

Haurchefant seemed aware of this change, for his eyes had grown ever-brighter and his lips parted ever-wider in a smile.

“I surely shall tell Ser Aymeric of this development. It would be a shame if only I could indulge in such wanton yet welcomed exploration,” he remarked lightly.

The viera stifled the curl of embarrassment such shameless words aroused with a sneer, turning his gaze from the tender look upon Haurchefant’s countenance. This touch was hardly  _ wanton _ ; it was as innocent as the knight could ever attempt to be.

Innocence, however, was not present in his words. “When you look like this, I very much desire to kiss you. I would like to taste your lips, and see if your emotions are as palpable upon my tongue as they are within mine eyes.” Haurchefant’s quiet admission was fervent, dripping with a near-desperation that had the back of the Warrior’s neck prickle. “You have no idea, my heart, of how radiant you are. Might I undress you?”

“Are you able to?” The Warrior asked instead.

Those gauntlets had seen countless battles, the metal scarred and dented from use. They were bulky, and not dextrous in the slightest--and afforded the knight no form of deftness beyond the ability to grip a blood-slickened hilt of a sword.

Haurchefant paused, and he took a moment to consider the viability of whatever act he wished to perform with such encumbering gloves.

“Ah… I suppose you are right in this matter. I would be unable to,” he admitted, sheepishness evident in his words. “Mayhaps I have been overzealous in what I am capable of doing this night. First chasing away Ser Aymeric, and now--starting something that I have no hope in finishing.”

The viera held back not the smile that his words elicited.

He reached up, cupping Haurchefant’s jaw with his hand. His skin was warm under his palm, and he was lovely in the dying glow of the fireplace. “You fool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always love exploring characters that are touch-starved but also touch-shy.  
> Also, communication between lovers is sexy and this is top-tier foreplay.


	3. Repose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> made up some lore. anyway, I'm hoping that this chapter portrays what I'm trying to.

In the morrow since that strange discussion, the Borel manse was quiet as Aymeric paced through its hallways, each step measured and slow. Portraits of notable de Borel past looked down upon him, their eyes blank and smiles placid. Each step was a careful attempt at meditation, of an introspection he rarely allowed himself.

Thirty steps took him down the length of the corridor; turning on his heel, he paced the thirty steps to return to his starting point.

Aymeric spent most of his time in thought, speculating and planning, strategising for the benefit of Ishgard. Now, however, he found himself thinking for the--benefit of himself, as selfish as the act was.

Haurchefant’s question, innocently posed, was one that deserved careful thought.

Courtship… a committed relationship with one more, other than the love he had promised the Warrior of Light. Was it truly a mockery of the ideal of love to be committed to two? To be ardent for more than one man? Was it truly so base to allow oneself to love more than one at once?

Widows were begrudged not for falling in love after the death of their spouses, and lovers could break apart to search for new love.

There was nothing  _ wrong _ about it. Aymeric didn’t believe so, at the very least.

He decided that it was… not incorrect of Haurchefant to claim that love--of the romantic sort in particular--was not a singular entity. Nonetheless, Aymeric had never considered himself to be particularly gifted at affection much like his forebears before him.

His mother, a silent figure he remembered not, and his father, who had pushed him beyond his limits to shape him into the man he was this day, were not figures of great love. It was his adoptive father--the one who he had loved in return dearly, who had gifted unto him his name and his fortune--had done his best to instill into Aymeric the same sense of love that had led to his adoption.

And he wondered; would he be capable of it? Would he be able to show ardour for more than the Warrior of Light?

The portraits upon the walls gave him no such answer.

* * *

Seated upon his seat at the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly the following morn, Aymeric had not expected to be sought out so soon by Haurchefant.

The knight of Fortemps came into his office, his countenance set in the most peculiar sort of expression: one of penitence and excitement both.

“Ser Aymeric,” his fellow greeted, his eyes looking everywhere but at Aymeric’s countenance. Nervousness was the third emotion Haurchefant showed in this instance. “Are you too busy to speak at the moment?”

Lucia, the tactful woman that she was, was swift to excuse herself and the few temple knights that had been in the room with a few quiet words. He would find her later, and would thank her for her discretion.

Aymeric was quiet for a moment, considering Haurchefant’s request briefly. The man would begrudge him not if he refused, he was certain of this. But would it be to anyone’s benefit if he avoided talking with the man each time he came?

He steepled his fingers, resting his elbows atop his desk. “No, I am not,” he said. Before Haurchefant could speak, however, he was certain to add, “Unless it concerns the matter we broached yestereve--I have yet to come to a decision upon  _ that _ particular matter.”

“Of course, of course!” Haurchefant agreed magnanimously. Relief briefly visited his expression, mayhap finding comfort in Aymeric’s lack of reticence or lingering offense. “This concerns a different event, anyhow. I have uncovered a rather interesting fact that I should think you would find most beneficial, Ser Aymeric!”

“And pray tell, what is that?”

The knight of House Fortemps near trembled where he stood with the intensity of his excitement. “The Warrior hates touch!”

Aymeric could stop not the smile that appeared upon his face at the fierce self-pride that now painted Haurchefant’s countenance. “That is not news to me, my friend,” he reminded gently.

“Nay, you understand not what I mean. I spoke with the Warrior just last night, and he divulged to me in far more detail about his predilection against touch…” Haurchefant began, and promptly went into explaining the events that had taken place after his own departure--with far too much detail at some points, especially concerning the Warrior’s body.

Aymeric staved off his fluster to no avail; he was no doubt flushed red as Haurchefant shamelessly described how even the breaths of the Warrior changed as he had been touched. “--You needn’t explain in more detail, Ser Haurchefant,” he interrupted, ere the knight could describe anything else. “I believe I understand the situation.”

“I took the opportunity to commission a pair of gloves with the aid of Lady Elaisse,” Haurchefant remarked offhandedly. “I hope that it wasn’t presumptuous of me that I also have requested a second pair for yourself, Ser Aymeric.”

“Ah--no, it is… appreciated. Thank you,” the Lord Commander replied, taken aback by the suddenness of his gift.

The knight of House Fortemps smiled, his countenance rosy with a pleased glow.

“Then… with our business concluded, I shall take my leave. Good day, Ser Aymeric—and beware you of the passing of time as you work! It would do Ishgard no service at all if you deprive yourself of your repose, nor would it do the Warrior any kindness,” Haurchefant added with no small amount of mischief.

Aymeric stopped not his own smile at the jest, shaking his head. “I believe you were leaving, kindly knight.” He gestured at the door with a flick of his wrist.

“Yes, yes, but bear what I say in mind! Ishgard is ever dependent upon the work of her most dedicated Lord Commander,” was Haurchefant’s last remarks before he flounced out of the doorway, leaving Aymeric no opportunity to rebut.

No sooner had Haurchefant closed the door behind him did Lucia come in once more, her eyebrow raised in silent askance for what had transpired between himself and the knight.

“Ah… it was nothing. Ser Haurchefant merely wished to talk to me about some private matters,” Aymeric divulged.

“I see… Well, I hope that whatever it is, it has been duly sorted out,” Lucia stated firmly.

Aymeric smiled at her. "Your concern is well appreciated," he remarked quietly, soft enough that only they two would be able to hear him. "Thank you, Lucia."

She seemed startled by his muted and hushed gratitude, but her countenance swiftly regained its usual neutrality. She then raised her arm, saluting him with the prim and strict precision she favoured. "I am merely doing my duty to you, Lord Commander."

"At ease," he stated. "Now, remind me of the tasks at hand today?"

Lucia came forth to begin expounding upon the demands by the various factions under his command, her tone full of fond exasperation. He was no doubt trying her patience, as through it all, Aymeric mulled over Haurchefant's words.

He affirmed to himself that it had been a visit with nothing out of the norm. Lucia, mayhap, would have found more amusement had he truly a sordid tale to tell.

* * *

That evening, the Warrior was sat within his study, cradling a cup of hot chocolate within his hands and staring into the fireplace. It was a familiar sight to Aymeric by now; the Warrior’s broad silhouette outlined by the nimbus of flames that the fire cast upon him.

What was now growing familiar was the accompanying shape of Haurchefant Greystone, wandering back and forth along the shelves and casting moving shadows across the room.

It was… surprisingly captivating, and Aymeric found his eyes darting back and forth from his work to the elezen’s form. His reports were dull in comparison to the overt liveliness of Haurchefant’s being, and the Warrior was an ever-patient and ever-welcome distraction from his work for all his silence.

“Ooh, I haven’t seen this book before!” Haurchefant remarked aloud, prying a book carefully from its perch to flick it open. " _ A Treatise on the Twelve, the Stars and Prophecy: Volume One _ … this must be some riveting read for it to be so earmarked," he commented. "And stained with some manner of drink."

Aymeric set his quill down with a muted sigh, but by the twitch of the Warrior's ears, he knew he had been heard.

There was a hint of wry amusement upon the Warrior's countenance when the viera looked at him over his shoulder. It was clear that Aymeric would be doing no work with Haurchefant in the room.

He rose from his uncomfortable desk chair, walking over to join the viera by the fireplace. By some unspoken command, Haurchefant, too, joined them. Aymeric sat upon the couch, while Haurchefant and the Warrior sprawled across the carpet in an undignified manner. The book remained in the lord's hands.

"Is this not something that the astrologians would marvel over? Why would the Lord Commander have such a book?" Haurchefant asked, holding the tome out for their mutual inspection.

Aymeric took the book from Haurchefant, smoothing his fingers over the yellowed pages. Its top-right corner pages were indeed stained a dull red from a mishap near three decades ago. His father had been most scandalised by the defacement of the time, but had let him off with an lenient indulgence that he had missed as a child. He smiled at the memory.

"As a child, I would read this not for its… less than comprehensible theories, but for the stories that were so detailed on certain pages," he divulged. "The scholar who wrote this was quite the capable author, and the myths of the Twelve that are detailed within captivated me."

"Ah--the story of the constellations, is it not?" Haurchefant asked.

The Warrior seemed ambivalent, offering no opinion verbal or not. The only sound that came from him was the sip of his drink and the creak of the couch as he leaned back against it next to Aymeric's legs. It only made sense that he would know naught of their mythology and religion.

"Yes," Aymeric flipped through the pages until he came across his most favoured of stories, the one of the Spear. "It has been quite some time since I've read these..."

"Then read it aloud, and let us all share in the stories," Haurchefant bid, smiling up at him from his lower vantage. "A late night reading from the lips of the Lord Commander himself--it would be an event most special, wouldn't you agree?"

The Warrior nodded not. Instead, he said, "I would hear of it."

And so bidden, Aymeric lowered his eyes to the book, and began to speak aloud the words written within. He would raise not his eyes from the book as he read, but knew he that they were listening.

First was genesis, of how the Spear had come to be. The Spear glowed silver in the dark though metal it was not, for Halone’s Spear was formed from moonbeams collected by the Lover and spun into shape by Menphina’s song and by Byregot’s hammer. For a thousand nights without end had the Builder toiled over his anvil and the Lover sang, and the moon had not yielded to the sun. When it had finally come to be, the Fury had taken hold of Her Spear and She pierced the heavens with a mighty swing.

So wielding a lance of moonlight in one hand and a shield of sunlight in the other, the Fury Herself had carved into the sky with Her spear, rending the icy reaches of the heavens into the shape of Her palace. As She had torn the heavens with Her spearpoint, crystals of ice had shattered, birthing the countless millions of shards of light that populated the sky; thus had She given unto the comfort of the stars in the night sky.

Her mercy, endless and eternal, was great, for Halone’s strength came not from the cold of Her glaciers, but from the love and compassion that was the very heart of Her spear.

\--All this, stories that any Ishgardian child would know by rote.

Ere long, there was a warm weight upon his lap; the Warrior had slowly come in towards him, and now lay his head against his thigh. From Aymeric's vantage, he could see not if he was awake. He paused in his reading, lowering the book to look towards Haurchefant.

The knight smiled at him, and raised a finger to his lips. The Warrior was asleep.

“Magnificent reading, Lord Commander,” Haurchefant murmured softly, smiling at him. “Your voice is truly suited for speaking--whether it is rousing men for battle or for lulling our Warrior to sleep.”

Aymeric closed the book and set it aside. He reached out, cautiously placing his hand upon the Warrior’s head. The viera stirred not, and continued to sleep. “Praise, then, the Fury that She has gifted me as such. I am… comforted that I am not solely sculpted by the architecture of war.”

Haurchefant’s answering hum was quiet and considering.

“We are men of war, but war defines us not; neither our actions, nor our persons, nor our futures.”

The silence that followed was comfortable, filled only by the crackling of the dying flames at the fireplace. Aymeric closed his eyes and sighed. The lateness of the hour was making itself known now that Aymeric was no longer at work, neither at his desk nor reading for his companions’ leisure. There was a lethargy setting in, starting where the Warrior was a gentle weight against his leg and spreading up his limbs.

“... Lord Haurchefant.”

There was a belayed sound coming from the other elezen, no doubt startled by the suddenness of the call. Aymeric opened not his eyes, choosing cowardice over knowing what expression would paint itself upon Haurchefant’s countenance with his following words.

“I know not if I am capable of it--loving as openly as you suggest I am capable of, but… I am willing to try. Whatever comes of our relationship… of our courtship, I would see it come to fruition.” Nervousness; that was the emotion that coloured his heart now that his final words had been spoken. They could not be taken back, and denying them would do more harm than it was worth.

There was no immediate response from the knight, but Aymeric could hear him approach. He felt the knight touch his hand. It was slow and surprisingly timid; Aymeric loosened his fingers and felt the other grasp at it tightly.

The brush of lips to his knuckles was unexpected enough for him to open his eyes once more, and Haurchefant looked at him with eyes wide with wonder.

“--You know not how much that gratifies me, Ser Aymeric,” Haurchefant said, though the smile upon his face was hint enough of the joy that he had so sparked with his words. “I shall endeavour not to betray your trust--and may the Fury take me if I do.”


	4. Sobriety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aymeric keeps shoving his pretty boots into his mouth.

Since his acceptance of their strange tried of a courtship, Aymeric found himself constantly beset by the errant lord Haurchefant of house Fortemps.

It was not in his physical presence that he was so constant; it was in the constancy of being reminded of his presence and attention.

Letters came near daily, full of meaningless anecdotes about Haurchefant's day at Camp Dragonhead, the personnel and the struggles of living and working at the frontlines of Ishgard's defence in Coerthas.

It was… surprisingly charming, and a welcome break from his own duties.

Haurchefant’s script was elegant, surprisingly so for a bastard, yet full of sharp angles that bespoke of his excitement. Despite the mundanity of his letter’s contents, his voice came across perfectly, full of a fervour in _living_ that Aymeric found himself looking upon fondly. Haurchefant revelled in the joy of life that he could find so much to like even within the act of shovelling snow from stone paths. Aymeric rather envied such excitement.

As such, he would read the letters in the midst of drilling his men, or reading the various reports coming in from all of the factions under his control. And when he had the time, he would pen responses that were much more brief--which in turn, elicited the return of even longer and far more elaborate letters.

Unlike the Warrior of Light, who preferred to come only occasionally as if a fickle shadow and giving neither warning nor indication of when he would visit, Haurchefant was vivacious and ever-present despite his permanent post at Camp Dragonhead.

Though that said, the Warrior was considerate in his own manner, preferring silence in their shared company. He seemed to prefer the sensuality of _knowing_ one’s affection, and the subtle ways of portraying it.

Sitting with him into the depths of night as he worked at his desk, speaking occasionally of his various adventures, bringing home all manners of queer items from all corners of Eorzea—the viera was far more akin to a reticent cat who preferred to dole out affection in a rationed manner.

Trinkets lined the walls of Aymeric's chambers, ranging from curious and inert machinery from the far reaches of Azys Lla to the knotted sculptures of Thanalan amalj'aa.

The dynamic differences between the two men he was courting were most fascinating, complementary in a strangely coincidental manner.

There could be no sensation of lonesomeness when Haurchefant would doggedly take up his time and thoughts. The Warrior would punctuate Haurchefant's cheer with his quiet solemnity, and each visit from either of the two was a welcome surprise for Aymeric.

And so, sennights would pass by, and Aymeric found himself more and more at ease with this queer entanglement of his.

* * *

One night came when Aymeric dined with the Warrior alone, drinking deeply into his glasses and feeling all the more effervescent for it. He did not often drink this deep; it was his company and his lack of duties in the morn that allowed him this indulgence.

The meal was excellent, or would be if it wasn't arrogant to praise one's own cooking, and the company moreso, yet soon Aymeric was most plaintive.

The topics they had to speak upon had run dry, and the viera was busy filling his mouth with food to offer conversation. Aymeric would have enjoyed listening to his words, few though they were, about his travels. Instead, silence settled atop them.

It was in this silence that Aymeric spoke up, stirred by this sudden morose feeling.

"You call Lord Haurchefant by his name, and yet refer to me by my last," Aymeric remarked, frowning as he inspected the wine within his glass.

It was a deep ruby in the candlelight, heady in scent and far more powerful than Aymeric had anticipated from the vintage. He had, mayhap, drank far too much of it, for he found that he cared not to keep his thoughts tucked within his heart.

Before him, the Warrior let out a snort. Spearing a broiled pumpkin in a most aggressive manner, he bit into it in a savage display that he cared not for Aymeric.

"Am I to take it that you prefer him over mineself, Warrior?" He asked, rather demanding in his manner. "Tis most telling that I am not so fondly called upon by your mouth. It would not offend me if you were to admit it. Is it for the sole fact that you have known him longer?" He pointed the glass towards the Warrior, the wine within splashing vigorously against its confines.

The Warrior cared not for his plight, and continued to eat his way through the meal that Aymeric had carefully prepared a few bells earlier.

“Aymeric.”

The elezen froze.

The viera gestured towards Aymeric with his knife, a morsel of meat speared to the sharp tip. “See? You care for it not.”

“Nay—I was surprised that you would call me so suddenly. Say it again,” Aymeric requested, setting the glass down onto the table to watch the Warrior most intently. “Would you kindly, my dearest friend?”

The syllables of his name had sounded most queer upon the Warrior's tongue, heavily laden upon the fricative of his name, the _r_ rolling instead of smooth. He hasn't ever considered how the Warrior's faint accent would have shaped his name, and it was enchanting.

The Warrior’s brows furrowed, and he stared back at Aymeric with a countenance most unamused. Set in stone, he was a sculpture of a man, and most likely with the heart of one—when it came to Aymeric, at the very least. With Haurchefant, he was soft, malleable like clay.

Aymeric could see that his grip upon the knife had tightened, knuckles whitening from tension.

“De Borel,” the viera said finally, firmly. He turned his head away from Aymeric's, looking out of one of the windows rather than gaze back at him. "I am not a dog for you to command."

"I would never consider you as anything less than you are!" Aymeric exclaimed, his words raised and loud, fueled by the fumes of the wine that yet clouded his mind. "Do not insult yourself--and mine actions towards you--so!"

A sneer crossed the viera's countenance. "You are deep in your cup, Lord Commander."

"Hardly." Aymeric was of the opinion that he had not drank nearly enough to become inebriated. "I am merely--lightened, though my tongue has been most loosened by drink."

The viera set down his cutlery upon the table, standing up to his full seven fulms of height. Staring down at Aymeric where he towered over all, a silhouette of the Warrior was cast by the candlelight.

“You are drunk." The Warrior's words were firm. Aymeric found himself silent in the face of such stern judgement.

Could one argue with such a firm conviction?

The Warrior's countenance remained stone even as he leaned over the table, palms pressed against the wood surface. The table freaked under his weight as he bore all of it unto the surface, coming in close to Aymeric's mien.

Green eyes, more akin to a deep abyss in the dark lighting of the room, pierced his own with the keenness of a lanner.

“... I care not for Haurchefant more than you. That is all I will say on this matter," he murmured quietly.

The words Aymeric wished to speak died in his throat. _Then explain it to me, why do you not treat us equally?_

"Would you, at the very least, call me by my name henceforth?" Aymeric requested quietly in lieu of his earlier thoughts. "I must admit, it has been quite something of a sore spot for mineself, that you could not address me so familiarly despite what we have laying betwixt us."

The Warrior's lips twisted into a thin line, a grimace.

"If it matters so much to you… Aymeric," he conceded with what seemed like ill grace.

Twas less so a victory for Aymeric as it was a battle with an ending inconclusive.

The Warrior reached out, placing a gloved hand upon the crown of Aymeric's head ere he straightened up once more. He took leave of the room without a single word, and Aymeric could hear the Warrior walk down the hallways. Expectedly, the sound of the front doors of the manor swinging open and shut came, signalling his utter departure.

As the warmth of the Warrior's hand faded, so did Aymeric's wine-bought foolishness. Sobriety had never felt quite as shameful as it did in that moment.

He let out a groan, covering his face with his hands.

Halone grant him grace that he could forget how terribly he had ruined this. He could only hope that no other soul would hear of his drunken mishap.


	5. Patience

The Lord Commander smelt of sour grapes.

Haurchefant could stop not his mirth as he watched Aymeric de Borel stumble about his quarters, eyes narrowed in pain as he came towards the doorway where he stood.

The midday bells had tolled, but in blatant contradiction to the diligence that he was supposed to represent the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights had yet to prepare for the day.

The room was yet dark, the curtains undisturbed from their closed state. The sheets upon the bed were yet unmade. And the most damning image of all: Aymeric fighting valiantly with the laces of his boots. Indeed, he was still latching on the last pieces of his outfit, fingers steady in their task solely due to decades of practice.

Bent over his own feet, hip pressed to the side of a table for balance, the lord commander was very much the picture of an undignified youth.

"Did you have much revelry last night?" Haurchefant asked gently, pitching his voice lower than his norm to spare the man some measure of pain. "I haven't seen you so discomposed since we were yet young knights."

"I _might_ have indulged too much," Aymeric admitted. His voice, tenor and well suited for speech, was roughened; it rasped much like a coeurl's tongue rather than flowed akin to sweetened kofi. "Pray, look not upon my shame. I fear I might have offended the Warrior at the peak of mine inebriation."

He stood up fully, laces now tied. Haurchefant tore his gaze from the Lord Commander's ankles, and he saw that Aymeric's countenance was pinched with worry. The knight of House Fortemps was hard-pressed indeed to hide his amusement. He knew exactly the reason why Aymeric was so harried this fair noon.

"Is that the reason why he so hurriedly invaded my quarters in the depths of the night to demand from me reasons why you cared so much about what you were called?" He asked.

He received his answer in the chagrin and horror that crossed Aymeric's features.

"I suppose I should admit that I didn't quite get what he was asking me until much later after he badgered me with questions in his own way. _Ishgardians are insensate_ ," Haurchefant quoted wryly. " _What are names but sounds? Are they so important to you elezen?_ I had to coax it out of our fierce-eyed Warrior that his confusion so stemmed from your request that he call you by your name."

Aymeric moved to cover his eyes with a raised hand, this time in abashment than in the remnants of his wine-caused stupor.

“And I would suppose it would be too much to ask that you forget this entire episode, Lord Haurchefant."

"Pray, drop the title. We are amongst friends and lovers, are we not, _Aymeric_?" Haurchefant asked ruthlessly, grinning at Aymeric's expression of alarum. Such lack of decorum was certainly something to be treasured, and he was intent on enjoying every moment of this. "And you are correct. I shan't be convinced to forget this any time soon."

Aymeric sighed, but he seemed to have expected Haurchefant's glibness. He raised his fingers to run them through his tousled hair, sweeping it back from his eyes in vain, for those black locks quickly fell to curtain his eyes again.

“Of course. I should not have expected otherwise from a man of such great memory.” Sarcasm dripped from his every word.

It bade Haurchefant to laugh, which spurred Aymeric on to smile, wry and small though it was.

However, ere he could relax, Haurchefant was determined to fluster him once more, to uncover what other truths lay poorly hidden behind that veneer.

It came to mind something that he had unearthed while delicately questioning the viera: "I find it rather interesting that you should so equate affection with how one is addressed," he continued. "Did it not occur to you that the Warrior displays not his interest in conventional ways?"

"I am more than aware of it," Aymeric's response was now most curt, and his pinched countenance now held traces of a form of impatience. Mayhap it was anxiousness. "T’was the wine that made me speak so poorly the past night. I know that the Warrior holds some measure of affection towards me. He would not have accepted my suit otherwise, nor allow such liberties to be taken with him."

His blue eyes went distant in thought, and Haurchefant wondered at what it was that the other would think about so deeply. Exactly what liberties had he taken?

Surely nothing so vile as to warrant the self-effacement imbuing those words, considering how painfully virtuous the man could be. Aymeric de Borel could outshine a priest with his purity of self.

"... That it should inspire you to speak upon it in the depths of your cup should surely illustrate how deeply it affected you," he then pointed out. "It seems that you mistrust, or at least are uncertain of, the Warrior's true regard for you. Would it not be better to discuss this with the Warrior lest it fester in some unknown way?"

The expression upon the Lord Commander's mien was most queer, caught between shock and reluctance. It seemed that Haurchefant had been full correct in his deduction.

Evidently, Aymeric had either not considered the merits of actually _discussing_ things with the taciturn viera, or he had some reservations upon speaking honestly about his doubts. (Had Haurchefant been a gambler, he would have put his money on both possibilities. As it was, Haurchefant was pious enough to stay far from gambling halls, and smart enough to not play with his coin so frivolously.)

"Would he even wish to speak upon this?" Aymeric asked in what should have been rhetoric.

Haurchefant smiled. "He is far more willing to speak, should you actually request him for his thoughts,” he advised. “Certainly, I’ve been far more privy to his words as of late, e’er since I asked him to be freer with his thoughts with mineself. It was how I’ve managed to tease out such secrets as the reason for his dislike for touch.”

Aymeric was quiet for a moment, eyes falling to affix upon the floor in contemplation. “I suppose that there is merit to attempt such discussion. I shall have nothing to lose, regardless.”

Haurchefant was full glad to hear his conviction. “I shall eagerly await to hear what comes about as a result—or mayhap, I shall see it instead?” He added as a teasing jab at the other.

He was answered with the flash of Aymeric’s eyes, which now gazed at him with no small amount of amusement at the suggestiveness of his words.

“I hadn’t taken you to be a voyeur, Lord Haurchefant.” The reproach was said with a small smile.

“Just Haurchefant will be fine, _Aymeric_ ,” Haurchefant replied swiftly. “And I shan’t be a voyeur if I am invited to watch my lovers enjoy themselves. Instead, I should think that I will be a most… active participant instead.”

The red of Coerthan roses swiftly bloomed across Aymeric’s countenance, and he turned his azure eyes away in abashed fluster. “I… cannot find myself doubting the sincerity of your words... Haurchefant.”

It came to mind that, for all the sennights since they had agreed to court, Aymeric had yet to show any particular inclination in physicality. Whether or not it was a question of disinterest or virtue was yet to be discerned. He could very easily recall Aymeric’s discomfort at Haurchefant’s lewd allusions and flirtations.

In all honesty, he rather doubted that Aymeric had ever even attempted to do aught with the Warrior. If left to their own devices, naught would come about between them.

Reaching out, he gently took hold of Aymeric’s chin. The Lord Commander froze at his touch, eyes widened at the bold gesture.

It was a comely expression upon his countenance. Shock brought out the cobalt brightness of his eyes, and it drew attention to the bow of his lips, which parted in a silent question.

Even had they not been in this intimate position, it was not difficult to see why Aymeric was very much the subject of ribald rumours when out of earshot, when he could arrest a woman with his smile alone. Had Aymeric been more inclined towards carousing as so many knights tended to be, there would be far more bastards running around Ishgard’s walls.

“Mayhap I should take this opportunity to remind you that I hold you highly in my regard,” Haurchefant murmured, “lest you mistake my lack of initiative as disinterest.”

“P-pardon me?” Aymeric’s stammer was truly uncharacteristic.

“My friend—Aymeric,” Haurchefant corrected. “Would you allow me to take a single _liberty_ with you?”

With his grip upon his chin, he could feel how Aymeric clenched his teeth, and he could feel the minute tremble of his body. “A _single_ liberty?”

“Aye. Pray, allow me to kiss you.”

Haurchefant released not Aymeric from his grip, even as he froze once more.

The blush upon his rounded cheeks faded not, remaining just as bright as it had been the moment it appeared. It rather simmered, staining his skin a most becoming pink. Even the tips of his ears blushed that sweet colour. The man averted his eyes, and shook his head from side to side, forcing Haurchefant to release his chin.

“It—I doubt it would be pleasant. I still reek of day-old wine, and… I am hardly prepared for it.” It was obvious that Aymeric was fumbling for excuses, perhaps to allow Haurchefant a chance to reconsider. He would not.

“I should think that you would be hardly prepared regardless of what context in which I ask," Haurchefant commently glibly. "But if you are so discomfitted, mayhap I shall ask you at another time, one in which you are more _prepared_."

Aymeric let out a sigh, drawn out and strained. "It must truly be a Gods-given curse that you are able to make the most innocent of words sound so vulgar," he muttered quietly, before turning to look at Haurchefant with those bright blue eyes. "--I would break my fast ere I come to any decisions. I have not been at my best as of late."

Haurchefant smiled. "Is it that difficult of a decision to make, Aymeric? Nevertheless, I shall await you as long as you require." He was a patient man, for all his impulse and initiative.

"It shall not take nearly as long as the last time," Aymeric promised quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think of Haurchefant as a catalyst.


	6. Tales

The breaking of his fast was not nearly as tense as he thought it would be.

Haurchefant was… rather  _ kind _ with his attention, remaining most platonic with his words and topics. Much like that time he had entered his office, he pushed not at Aymeric for an answer, apparently at ease with being denied an answer for as long as Aymeric desired.

It was most surprising to Aymeric that for all of his flirtation and the way in which he had even broached the concept of courtship, Haurchefant seemed not inclined for anything sexual in nature. Instead it seemed as if he found far more interest in inciting Aymeric's fluster and, in the case of their absent third, reveling in the Warrior's subtle amusement.

As their meal was served, Haurchefant spoke most innocently upon a variety of things: their repast, the state of their borders, his brothers' antics--subjects that Aymeric could contribute some manner of response to, should he so choose.

"--Artoirel had never looked so chagrined," Haurchefant said with no small amount of relish. "And Emmanellain had looked so pleased with himself! Truly, he looked every bit akin to a coeurl with a bird in the mouth."

Aymeric smiled, able to perfectly imagine the very situation Haurchefant painted of his two brothers. One stern and proper, the other his exact foil… it was an explosive combination, he was certain, when out of the public eye.

"I would suppose that Lord Emmanellain would not escape Lord Artoirel's wrath once in the privacy of your abode?"

"Indeed he did not!" The knight before him let out a laugh, raucous with mirth. "Oh, how Artoirel made him pay for embarrassing him in front of his paramour… There is a reason why my dear brother will never intentionally anger Artoirel now. But this particular incident was not the cause of such fear. Rather, Em yet scowls most darkly when one suggests that he should wear a cravat."

Aymeric was both rather curious as to the exact context for Emmanellain's fear of cravats as he was dreading such details.

"May I ask as to why?" He asked hesitantly.

With great relish, Haurchefant divulged the details. His eyes were alight with the mischief of elder siblings that loved to humiliate their younger counterparts even as he exclaimed, "As a youth, little Em loved putting on his cravat by himself, claiming that it made him feel much more  _ responsible _ and adult."

A small burst of laughter then escaped the knight, though it was much akin to a giggle with how he tittered behind a raised hand. 

"Artoirel, however, was very much a son of Ishgard even back then, and he had taken the lessons of the priests to heart. An eye for an eye," Haurchefant added.

"And blood for blood," Aymeric finished quietly.

"Exactly! So what Artoirel decided was that he would humiliate Emmanellain in front of his lady love from House Haillenarte…" Haurchefant's eyes had gone distant with remembering the scene, and Aymeric sat back, gazing upon his countenance.

Even when not smiling, there was joy hidden in the curves of his countenance, some sort of delight sparking from the very shape of his thin lips. Contentment became of the knight, made his features all the more… radiant. Haurchefant was no classic beauty, but in his endless cheer, there was something inexplicably arresting about his eyes.

Aymeric averted his gaze when Haurchefant snapped out of his momentary daze, a far more alert grin appearing upon his face.

"Artoirel had somehow managed to lace all of Em's cravats with a tincture of nettles," the knight said with a laugh. "And  _ oh _ , how Emmanellain stewed for days! Scratching at his neck, scratching at his fingers, utterly unaware of what it was that had beset him. Nevertheless, he would faithfully wear his nettle-infused cravats, and he would chase after Lady Laniaitte… who of course, would suffer no fools."

"She figured it out, if I were to guess," Aymeric replied.

Haurchefant grinned. "Oh, she did more than that. She was most succinct in telling Emmanellain that he looked as if a sickly little peafowl, strutting about as if a cravat alone was enough to make him a man. If he wished to be taken more seriously, he had best grow out of it! Lady Laniaitte had a far more vicious tongue in our youth."

And Lord Emmanellain, being the rather gullible man that he was, had likely taken her at her word and refused to wear cravats henceforth to be taken for a man.

"Somehow, this makes me full glad that I was the only child of my household," Aymeric murmured quietly. He couldn't ever imagine what it would have been like to have had siblings; then again, he doubted he would have become heir to House Borel if he had.

"Oh, mistake this not as a vilification of siblings!" Haurchefant was quick to remark, eyes wide. "Tis moments like these that make it absolutely fantastic--oh pray, allow me."

Cutting himself off when a manservant entered the room with a pot of tea, Haurchefant hurried over and snagged the tray from the man ere he could even attempt to set it down to pour them their cups.

Aymeric stifled not the smile on his face at the surprise upon the manservant's face, and how he parted his lips to protest. He gestured to the side with his hand, drawing the man's attention.

"Worry yourself not with your duties, Ser Aumont," he said. "Take this opportunity to rest rather than wait on Lord Haurchefant and I. You may also tell the rest of the staff that they may take the rest of the day off--I believe it is well deserved."

Aumont was visibly hesitant. No doubt it was a horrifying prospect to Ishgardian noblesse that the lord of a house would be willing to carry out mundane household chores, but Aymeric had never claimed to be wellborn. He was perfectly capable of carrying his own dishes to the kitchen and cleaning up after himself.

"Of course, my lord," the manservant agreed belatedly. Bowing and taking his leave, Aumont left the dining room once more.

Even as he dismissed Aumont, Haurchefant had taken it upon himself to pour tea into the two fine porcelain cups, remarking in delight that he very much enjoyed the particular blend Aymeric's household had.

Even as he poured milk and syrup into the two cups, the man remarked thoughtfully, "--I've always found it a shame that we can so rarely find the time to take a break from our duties. I've always wished to visit La Noscea. There's something rather romantic at the thought of the sultry heat and white sands, at such opposites to the snow and cold of Coerthas."

One of the cups was pushed towards Aymeric.

Aymeric raised his drink to his lips, only distantly noting that it was not nearly as sweet as he preferred his tea; Haurchefant had yet to master his preferred ratio of syrup. "Mayhap we will be able to see the end of the Dragonsong War in our time, and you shall be able to visit."

"Ah, yes, that would be the dream," Haurchefant agreed with a wistful smile. "You've been to places outside of Coerthas, have you not, Aymeric?"

Aymeric reached out to take hold of the syrup jug, pouring it out into his cup under Haurchefant's watchful gaze. He would not allow himself to feel any measure of chagrin as Haurchefant's eyes widened at the amount he poured in.

"I have been to Gridania once," he revealed, once his tea was sweetened to his preference. "It was a short visit, a few years before the Calamity. The seed-seers had wished to discuss matters concerning the Ixal that live between our borders."

Rather than continue their current topic, Haurchefant grinned at him. "I'd known you to have a sweet-tooth, but I hadn't expected you to have an appetite that can rival the Warrior's," he remarked in a manner that was far too off-hand to be genuine.

And yet again, Haurchefant's knack for sounding utterly vulgar came to play. Aymeric could feel his countenance heat up, and he averted his eyes from Haurchefant's delighted leer.

"I merely prefer my tea sweet." Aymeric stated curtly in an attempt to hide his embarrassment.

"That is more syrup than tea," Haurchefant was swift to retort. "In fact, I would describe it more as  _ tea-flavoured _ syrup! I wager you could not taste the difference if you had been served a cup of pure birch syrup." The grin on his face did not lessen in the slightest.

Aymeric deigned to give him no response, instead busying himself with enjoying his tea.

The knight looked far too delighted to have been quietly slighted. “I know just the thing to gift you, then. To be full honest, I had always thought you to be an enigmatic man to find gifts for, but no more! When the Warrior returns—I shall have prepared a most wonderful surprise for the two of you.”

Aymeric would admit his great curiosity at Haurchefant’s announcement concerning both the so-called surprise as well as the fact that the Warrior had apparently left Ishgard entirely. He supposed that Haurchefant would give no significant response if he asked about what he had planned. Instead, he asked: “Did the Warrior return to Gridania?”

… Had he chased their third away with his drunken comments? That thought sat poorly with him.

"Nay, the Warrior has run off to romp through Coerthas on the behest of his fellow Scions," the knight finally revealed with a careless shrug. "He was not clear about the reasons why, but I’m certain that it is to the benefit of us all. We shall not see him for quite some few days, and you shall have some time to figure out how to make your reparations with him.”

“I see,” Aymeric said softly.

Apparently aware of his melancholy, Haurchefant sent him yet another smile, and this time gentle it was with the softness around his eyes. “Well, I have decided that I shall escort you around fair Ishgard today--a poorer shadow I'll make compared to our Warrior, but at least I shan't be as imposing!"

“You will not allow me to protest this decision?” Aymeric asked, though he had not the intention to do so.

“Nay. We spend not nearly enough time with one another,” Haurchefant replied. “I am determined to rectify this. Besides, I am also determined to chip away at your resolve until you deign me worthy of your kiss.”

So prompted by the knight, Aymeric could feel himself flush once more.

It was a simple kiss that Haurchefant requested from him. Nothing so vulgar. Aymeric was no shy virgin, for foolish fumbling as a young squire had taken that title from him. Nevertheless, simple words from Haurchefant were able to inspire such embarrassment within him.

Mayhap he would allow himself to feel flattered at how eagerly he was pursued by the knight; that would be a far more tolerable feeling than the fluster that said knight so often inspired.

“You need not  _ chip away _ at my resolve,” Aymeric said softly. “You are worthy of it.” It was a hesitant invitation.

Haurchefant seemed full eager to accept it, judging by the manner in which he stood up, darting around the table to approach. There was a grin on his face, a reverence in it that Aymeric had to admit was surprising to see—it was an expression that he had yet only seen when Haurchefant gazed upon the Warrior.

“Oh, Aymeric,” Haurchefant crooned. “You’ve not the slightest idea how content that makes me.”

The last time Aymeric had been kissed—it must have been at least a decade ago, a searing kiss given in remnants of a bout against Dravanians. Estinien had been slick with blood, as had he, and the fist in his hair had been unyielding.

In contrast, Haurchefant now held his countenance gently betwixt his palms. The touch of his lips was soft at first, gaining strength when Aymeric pulled not away. He seemed to be a confident lover, in full knowledge of what he liked.

The hand upon his countenance slid down to hold the back of his neck, and that mouth coaxed him to move in tandem, parting his lips and tilting his head to the side to allow the kiss to deepen.

Haurchefant sighed in contentment, his breath a warm puff against his cheek.

Aymeric found himself lost in his proximity, hopelessly charmed by the warmth of his touch.


	7. Letters

When the Warrior had returned to Ishgard's borders and slunk silently into Camp Dragonhead's walls, Haurchefant had been finishing a letter most elaborate addressed to the Lord Commander.

His mind was still most preoccupied with memories of past nights; the sweetness of syrup upon Aymeric's tongue, the sweetness of his sighs in his ear. For all his greater years and his prowess on the field, the Lord Commander had been proven to be a shy and inexperienced lover. Apt to receive, eager to be shown pleasure than to take it--Haurchefant found himself rather ravenous for more.

He'd been hard-pressed to make their gentle kiss remain merely that, but it had been most tempting to press for more.

Was it so unreasonable that his mind would not leave such thoughts? He had been blessed by Halone with the most saccharine of lovers, and he would treasure them with the delicacy that they deserved. Aymeric and his shy manner; the Warrior with his rare intimacy...

Penning his feelings into words gave him a method by which to order his ever-rapturous thoughts, and it also gave Haurchefant a much-needed outlet for his affection when he was posted at Camp Dragonhead permanently.

That penning such letters came with the consequence of Aymeric's return post gave him all the more incentive to write such things in the first place.

The scratch of the quill upon parchment and the crackling of the fireplace were his only companions that night, until a soft clicking sound invaded the space.

He raised his head from his desk when he heard the door to his chambers open, and a smile burst forth, unbidden, when he realised who it was.

"My dearest friend!" Haurchefant greeted fervently, rising from his seat to meet the viera at the door. His quill lay forgotten upon the desk, and the letter now abandoned in favour of his companion. "I didn't expect to see you here so soon! Pray, tell me how you've been?"

There could be no mistaking the contentment upon the Warrior's countenance. The Warrior's verdant eyes were bright as they typically were after a long period of roaming the wilderness, full of alert energy and warmth as he gazed back at Haurchefant.

Snow clung to the Warrior's shoulders and hair, hiding seamlessly in with his frost-tipped hair. A shake of his head displaced the snow from his form, and the ice fell to the floor where it would swiftly melt in the warmth of the fireplace.

He seemed not to be injured, but a mere cursory glance would not reveal much about the Warrior's condition. It would bear much more thorough examination.

"Busy," came the quiet response. "I would busy myself with you, now."

The viera reached up to rest his hand upon Haurchefant's arm for a moment. Haurchefant chose not to reciprocate, lest he chase away this uncharacteristic and affectionate mood from the other.

"You thought to preoccupy yourself here with me?" Haurchefant asked, smiling. "I am most flattered that you would deem my company worthy of your time. Nevertheless, ere I break away from my work to attend to you, come with me to my desk."

The viera blinked at him slowly and dropped his hand from his greaves, but followed him dutifully to the aforementioned desk.

Haurchefant took hold of the parchment that he had abandoned prior, raising it to show the Warrior. "I was penning a letter to Aymeric--have you something you wish to let him know?"

"I return to Ishgard in the morn." The Warrior frowned, a habitual expression that closed off his countenance and hid his emotions behind a stoic veneer. "I can say what I want in person."

"Penned words are just as sincere as spoken words. Some would argue that they are more so, since it takes time and effort to write down one's thoughts, and once written they cannot be taken back and forgotten," Haurchefant replied. He set the letter back down. "I should think that written speech may come easier to you."

The Warrior remained hesitant, and moved not. Neither towards the letter nor away.

Haurchefant had made a study out of the Warrior's expressions and his body, trying to figure out the hidden meanings in his mannerisms. He assumed that this time, the Warrior was most  _ consternated _ , with the tension in his ears and the extreme thinness of his lips as he pursed them. The clenched jaw, the narrowed eyes… Had Haurchefant unknowingly tread upon thin ice?

"What is the matter, my dearest friend?" Haurchefant asked, when the silence had lingered long.

The Warrior looked away from him, remaining silent. The flex of his neck, the stiffness of the set of his shoulders--there was reluctance written in every facet of his.

When the viera finally spoke, it was most quiet, barely louder than a whisper. "I cannot write."

"Ah," was all Haurchefant could say in response.

The Warrior of Light was illiterate? He couldn't be. He was capable of reading, Haurchefant was sure of that, so how was he incapable of writing? He had never heard of such a case. Unless he spoke of writing in  _ Ishgardian _ script, which was quite a bit removed from Common. It would have been a point most moot as Aymeric and he were both trained to read and write in a variety of scripts due to their positions.

Haurchefant had been silenced in his surprise, but he quickly shook it off. "That is no matter. One can be taught to write our script. And for now, I am more than capable of writing for you. That is, if you wish to send our Lord Commander correspondence," he said as an oblique invitation.

"That is unnecessary."

The viera turned away, and he strode towards the fireplace. Kneeling by the flames, it was clear that he would remain there until Haurchefant joined him.

Haurchefant was most torn between asking him for more information and finishing his letter. Ultimately, he chose to do the latter.

Returning to his desk, he picked up the abandoned quill where it had fallen rather forlornly to the side, and penned in the last segment of the letter.

> _ As of the time of writing this letter, the Warrior has just returned from his venture through Coerthas. Dressed in winter's gown and wreathed in ice, he stepped through the doors with all the sound of a breathless whisper. Needless to say, it was a surprise. One that is utmost welcome here, but his startling appearance is the reason for the ink stains above. Pray, forgive me for not replacing this parchment with a fresh sheet; I rather enjoy the authenticity of sending you the first edition of my thoughts, unfiltered and organic in their raw state. _
> 
> _ Regarding the Warrior: I have asked him as to whether he would address anything to you in this written format, but alas! He refused, citing that he would speak to you in person instead. It is for that reason that I now convey his secret language to you in lieu of the Warrior's own written hand. _
> 
> _ He smiles at me with his eyes though his lips remain stiff and unsmiling, and he stands tall within the walls of this humble keep, looking as if a monolith of strength that may outlast even Ishgard herself. I should think you will be most well received by him. Nary a part of him shows any sign of lingering resentment, though you and I are more than aware of how well he tends to hide his thoughts… _
> 
> _ Now, he stays to the side of the room, staring at me with eyes most sharp as I continue to write in favour of sending you my thoughts. It appears that he has become rather impatient for mine attention. I shall have to end this letter here, lest he take off and leave Camp Dragonhead a colder place in his wake. _
> 
> _ It may be that this letter shall arrive at your desk long after the Warrior has returned to Ishgard, but it shall carry all of my best hopes and wishes to you, Aymeric, as well as my heart. May the Fury bless and guide you, now and forevermore. _

Signing off the letter with his usual flourish, Haurchefant set the parchment aside to dry. He would have it sent off in the morning--or mayhap the Warrior himself would be willing to carry it to its intended recipient. He glanced over at his companion once more.

He found this sight before his eyes: the Warrior had shed his outer layers, setting his cloak and coats upon the floor in a heap most dishevelled.

Laying upon the rug by the fire, his lover was bathed in red and gold, all the rest of his colours leached by the flames. He was large from head to vieran toes, in no way lithe despite his deceptive and silent manner.

There was a space upon the rug by his side, made conspicuous by the unnatural arch of the Warrior's position, and Haurchefant knew then that that was an invitation for him to join him there. He smiled, flutters of affection made known in the pit of his chest.

Reaching into his desk and removing a paper-wrapped packet from its hidden place, Haurchefant moved to join the viera upon the rugs. He sat down in the cradle of the viera's body, his back to the fireplace.

Curiosity was evident upon the Warrior's chiselled countenance as he regarded the item within Haurchefant's hands. He stirred from his prone position as Haurchefant carefully tore the paper from the box, removing the items concealed within.

Though commissioned and received multiple sennights past, it was only now that the silk gloves Haurchefant had bought saw use.

The box was duly discarded to the side once Haurchefant had freed his gloves from their casing, and now, they adorned his hands.

Now buttressed upon his elbows and half-raised from the rug, Warrior watched him silently, eyes gleaming from the light of the flames beside them. He seemed ambivalent, neither excitement nor disapproval seen in his expression, but he showed that he was willing to remain still as Haurchefant reached out to place his hands upon his forearm.

He drew the arm into his lap, and the Warrior lowered himself once more to the floor, no longer able to hold himself up. He yet watched Haurchefant with his quicksilver eyes.

Unlike his gauntlets, the thinness of the silk allowed Haurchefant a greater degree of sensation. He could feel the coolness of metal buttons beneath his fingertips, as well as the roughness of the leather of the viera's armour. He was also far more dextrous by virtue of lack of metal, and he could easily undo the latches of the Warrior’s gloves.

Haurchefant could see how the Warrior held his breath as the leather was slowly pulled from his limbs, eyes lowered to watch silk-clad fingers as they roamed daringly across his body.

The gloves were placed to the side, and the Warrior's hands now were naked, every scar and callous now subject to his vision.

The span of his hands was broad, and the very shape of his fingers were glorious; long and thin in such contradiction to his general girth. His knuckles were lined with scars both recent and ancient, some looking as familiar as a knife's nick and others as strange as some form of alchemical burn. There was a birthmark he had never noticed on the Warrior's right wrist, a small brown dot an ilm below the jut of the bone. Menphina's mark, for all that the Warrior cared not for the Twelve.

Haurchefant traced the lines of his palms, pressing his fingertips into the plump flesh at the base of his thumbs. They were yet soft despite knowing how to wield steel; they were archer’s hands, crafted to kill from yalms away.

“Might I kiss your palms?” He asked quietly.

The viera hesitated at his question, though he eventually nodded. 

Haurchefant lowered his head to his hands, and he did as he so desired. Pressing his lips to his palm, he lingered there in an act of self-indulgence, utterly delighted that he could touch his lover so constantly without the other drawing away. Then, giving into the impulse, he turned the Warrior's hand to the side, pressing his lips to the dot upon his wrist.

The viera flinched when he dared to taste Menphina's mark upon his tongue, but remained still otherwise. His countenance was painted in a shade of vulnerability, his verdant eyes narrowed as he watched Haurchefant most warily.

Then the vaguest sound came from his throat upon the graze of Haurchefant's teeth against his skin.

The knight promptly stopped. "Too much?" Haurchefant asked worriedly, raising his head from where he had it pressed to the Warrior's arm.

The Warrior could be seen clenching his jaw. Not a sound left him, no words nor humming, but it was clear that he was holding back his thoughts.

"Pray, tell me what it was that you so disliked," he bade, more akin to a plea.

Reluctance was clear in the manner that the viera moved, turning his head away. "It was not dislike," came the quiet response.

"Ah."

Again, Haurchefant was silenced by the Warrior, his eyes wide and his heart racing at the implication.

They stayed there for a silent moment, enough time for Haurchefant's heart to settle within his chest once more and the impulse to kiss his lover had faded. Mostly. He would ever yearn to rest his lips against his lover's, to feel them pressed against his own form.

The viera had turned his head back towards Haurchefant, and he sat up to rest upon his haunches. His forearm remained in the knight's grip, and… how could Haurchefant interpret this in any way other than a silent invitation?

"Might I continue?" Haurchefant asked.

The Warrior nodded once, swift and birdlike.

Carefully and reverently, Haurchefant moved to touch and undress the Warrior, eager to bear his pale skin within the walls of his chambers as he had requested so many sennights ago.

The brass latches and leather ties of his gambeson were undone swiftly. He watched as the Warrior's eyes closed, countenance twisting in a mild grimace as Haurchefant’s hands slid down his arms, pulling the sleeves and neck of his shirt down.

His chest was bared for his eyes to behold; he could see how his stomach tensed and trembled, each breath he took slow yet unsteady.

The Warrior let out a stuttered sound when he placed his gloved hands upon his abdomen, fingers splayed to press greedily to the contoured flesh, following the subtle valleys of his sculpted form.

His waist and his neck were unmarred by scars, but he could see the remnants of a burn upon his sternum, the flesh darkened and knotted from poor healing. The mark of an knife could be spied by his navel, only just missing anything vital. Various other scars painted his skin, most faded to the point where Haurchefant could tell not whence they came.

Stories could be told endlessly of these hundreds of marks, history written upon flesh, but the Warrior doubtlessly remembered them not.

"Tell me where you'd like me to touch," Haurchefant bade quietly. He watched in rapture as the Warrior tilted his head back, exposing more of his neck in the act. "Tell me when to stop. I am but yours to command, love mine."

The Warrior spoke not, and instead, he lay back once more.

Thighs, thick and hard much like the boughs of a mighty tree, were now on either side of his hips. The Warrior’s eyes remained closed, hiding whatever emotion was unapparent from his countenance.

Haurchefant could not stop the gasp that left him, and he was equally helpless in his subsequent delight, laughing ecstatically as he surged forth, pressing their lips together most eagerly.

Saccharine were the Warrior's lips, and his sighs were myrrh to his ears.

* * *

When morning came, the viera was naught to be seen, and the letter upon his desk equally absent.

All that remained of the Warrior's presence was an arrow placed upon the table, deliberate and conspicuous. Underneath the arrow was a sheaf of parchment, upon which was inked by a clumsy hand the Warrior's name.

Haurchefant could only smile, wondering at his lover's fumbling attempts at showing care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The viera is a clumsy lover, not prone nor predisposed to affection. He tries, though he has not the instinct for this.


	8. Reconcilation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not happy with this chapter, but getting it actually written and posted will at least let us progress into things that I’m happier about.

That particular night Aymeric had not expected to return to his home to find the Warrior seated in the sitting room, nursing a mug of tea in his large hands.

Across from the Warrior stood a maid of his household, tittering and chatting with him with an ease Aymeric had thought impossible. He hadn't believed that his staff would be so unguarded so soon, especially with the Warrior's reticence and constant frowns, but upon approaching them and hearing the contents of their words, he understood why they had become so amicable to the taciturn viera.

"--Aymeric has always ever been clever with words, even as a young lad of seven summers," Claire said knowingly, raising her eyes to catch Aymeric's own gaze. She smiled at him, and the act deepened the lines upon her face. "However, our lord was never one to speak his true thoughts out of fear of upsetting others, always so capable of twisting his words to best suit each person with whom he spoke."

Mayhap his staff had been speaking with Haurchefant far too much in these past days if they were found gossiping like this. Aymeric tried to hide the chagrin so inspired by these words.

"That fear may have been true in years past, but I should think that I've outgrown my childhood fears," Aymeric stated, striding into the room to join them. "I should also hope that such an assessment was not meant to paint in tar mine image, Claire."

The aged hyur laughed, lacking any form of fear and full of fondness. Her familiarity was something Aymeric rather treasured for he had known her for the majority of his life. However, such familiarity also meant that she held far too many stories of his past hostage.

She folded up the cloth that had been cradled within her arms, lowering her eyes demurely. “Fear not, my lord. I was merely answering a question posed by the Warrior of Light," she said.

When addressed, the viera’s shoulders stiffened. With his back to Aymeric, the elezen could see not what expression painted his countenance. He wondered if it was nervousness, or mere alertness that his title had been called.

"It was nothing." The viera stated bluntly, finally glancing over at him over his shoulder in a silent greeting.

“Indeed, he merely asked whether you had always been so clever with your words,” Claire corroborated, smiling when the Warrior sent her another unseen expression. “If I may be so bold to add: ‘tis only in recent times that Lord Aymeric has become the man that he is… mayhap it is due to the change in our lord's prospects?” She added, eyes sparkling with mischief.

It was doubtless that she was referring to Aymeric’s own changes in his personal relationships. It was also doubtless that he was now painted red in his heightened fluster, having been so easily caught.

He could think not of what could have revealed his change in _prospects_ to his household, when it had merely been the time he spent with both Haurchefant and the Warrior that had increased. That could have been attributed to a deepening of friendships, after all, instead of aught else. Was he so transparent to his household?

"Thank you. Claire," Aymeric said finally, averting his eyes from her mirthful countenance. The Warrior was looking back at him with glassy eyes, stolid as ever. "I believe that the Warrior has been assisted enough."

She took the dismissal gracefully and she curtseyed. "It was a pleasure," Claire said demurely, before excusing herself with a few more polite words.

Aymeric turned to the doorway, watching as the door closed shut behind the maid. Now alone with the viera, he could think naught of the words that he had planned and practiced.

An apology was owed from his part for his drunken behaviour, for his sheer lack of consideration of boundaries when so inebriated--and he had intended on asking the other about his candid thoughts. Yet the words would come not, and he remained stood there, mute and near-dumb.

Anything he could think at that moment sounded dreadfully insincere. _I would like to apologise for my awful actions that night, where I accused you of caring naught for me._ Such words would only spark anger, that was doubtless.

Behind him, he could hear the Warrior shift.

"I have a letter for you." The Warrior's voice came rather as a shock.

Aymeric turned around once more, and he found that the letter was extended for him to take. The viera's countenance was yet stone, but there was some form of concession in his gaze, the slightest softening at the corner of his eyes.

The envelope was bent, crumpled at the edges as if it had been kept within a pocket, but the lettering at the front was clearly Haurchefant's elaborate script.

"You've come from Camp Dragonhead then?" Aymeric asked, rather than voice his scriptless apology. "How is he? Haurchefant, I mean,"

The viera dropped his hand once Aymeric had liberated the letter from his grasp. "Well enough to talk endlessly about the clouds," was his wry response; a rare display of his dry humour.

Aymeric could only smile helplessly, clutching the letter to his chest. "And may I ask how you are?" Daringly, he took a step closer to the other.

The viera lolled his head to the side, pinning him with a flinty stare. Aymeric stopped in place.

He should have expected the other to reject his attempts at closeness. Mayhap it was too soon, for all of Haurchefant's reassurances; the other elezen had a quality to him that could soothe any ire that one may hold against him, whereas Aymeric was… lacking such quality.

It was quite possible that the viera would remain most furious towards him for quite some time. Aymeric would blame him not.

"Mine apologies," he murmured softly, taking a step back. "Shall I leave you alone?"

A heartbeat later, the stare lessened in intensity, those verdant eyes somehow becoming less sharp.

"No. Sit." The viera gestured at the cushions by his side. He then fell silent, and it became evident that he would continue not to speak until Aymeric had done so.

Hesitantly the elezen went forth, seating himself beside his scorned lover.

"I care not for names nor titles." The viera said finally, his gaze yet turned away from Aymeric. His profile was stark against the dying light of the sun at the window, bathing all his features save for the outline of his nose and lips in shadow. "I should not have assumed that you would feel the same. Aymeric." His name was attached at the end, as if a careful afterthought.

Aymeric startled at his words. "That is not something I care for--what I mean to say is that I… felt as if I held less of your regard, when you would address me so distantly and yet others would be called by their given names."

The viera finally turned to look at him. "De Borel is easier to say than Aymeric," he said finally.

Was… he offering the reason why he had addressed Aymeric so curtly all this time? Aymeric couldn't stop himself from laughing incredulously, in disbelief, at the severity of his own offense against the viera's unmeant distance.

"Haurchefant, too, has a name that is far too long." The viera continued, seemingly ignoring Aymeric's self-effacing mirth. "Elezen hold far too much stock in sounds."

And here he spied an opening to learn more about his taciturn lover, who defied all his expectations of courtship and relationship alike. "Do deeds, then, matter more to you?" Aymeric asked. "Acts, or mayhap gifts?"

The Warrior hesitated visibly. "I care not for any of those."

"Then what is it that you care for?" Aymeric asked.

Verdant eyes lowered, that radiant countenance downturned in thought.

Aymeric had been under the impression that the viera preferred to spend his company in the presence of others, to interact not with them and instead… somehow derive comfort in existing within the same room. He wondered if this was incorrect.

"I have your regard. It is enough." The viera said finally, softly.

The elezen was silent for a moment, considering the Warrior's words carefully. He then stated, "I feel as if I should do more for you to demonstrate my fondness for you and to affirm our relationship."

The Warrior looked over at him with an expression that seemed near puzzled.

"What I mean is--you… don't seem as if you care for the usual trappings of courtship," Aymeric explained slowly, awkwardly. “Of romance, of… being unravelled, so to speak, by your partner. Intimacy that goes beyond platonia and philia. You have an aversion to touch and to conversation; it often leaves me wondering how I am to draw closer to you.”

The viera seemed to consider something; he tilted his head, that chiselled countenance set into something thoughtful.

“You want to touch me.” It was a statement.

Aymeric near-flinched at the boldness of his words.

“I—yes. I suppose that... _is_ ultimately what I am attempting to convey.”

Ere he had learnt of the Warrior’s reasons for disliking touch, he had been careless in his approach, taking hold of his hand and caressing his countenance without thought. Since then—he could recall not a time he had allowed himself such selfish liberties.

He had not intentionally touched the Warrior for many a sennight.

The Warrior sat back upon the chair, the forgotten mug of tea set to the side. He then spread his arms out, countenance set into something deliberately stoic. “I will stop you not. Touch me, Aymeric.”


	9. Exploration

The offer that the Warrior had extended, that terrible honour of being able to touch him as he so pleased, left him shaken.

"I--thank you, my friend," he stammered out, overwhelmed by the suddenness of this privilege. "Might I...?"

The viera gestured with his spread arms, silently indicating his agreement.

Aymeric reached out with his hesitant hands, placing them upon the viera's forearms where his gambeson ended and his wrists were exposed. Encircling his hands as best he could around those thick limbs, he pulled the viera forward. Willingly, the Warrior moved, verdant eyes yet fixed upon Aymeric's.

Within that gaze most crystalline could softness be found, an indulgent gleam that bade him to continue.

Aymeric twined their fingers together, raising their joined hands to his lips, and he pressed the lightest of kisses to his scarred knuckles. He could feel how those fingers twitched even at the softest of touches, the contact of skin upon skin no doubt close to agony for the viera.

And as such, he lingered not upon his naked hand.

Daringly, he continued to pull the Warrior forward until their chests touched, and then to braver still wrap his arms around the viera's chest.

Thus, Aymeric was able to embrace him as he had never allowed himself to wish for, and he could hear how the viera huffed quietly next to his ear.

"... This was not what I thought would happen." The viera admitted quietly.

Aymeric chuckled quietly. "Did you expect me to want more than this?" He asked.

The wide expanse of his chest rose and fell within the circle of his arms with each breath, and he could feel how the Warrior slowly began to lean in, resting more of his weight against Aymeric as the embrace continued.

"Mayhap not," came the Warrior's eventual and quiet response.

Aymeric smiled. "Mistake me not as one who is not attracted to you. I am, to an almost shameless extent. However, I have always wanted this--to merely feel you against me."

Gradually, two arms came up to wrap around him in return, and Aymeric could feel the smile bloom all the wider upon his own countenance.

The chill of Ishgard could do naught to stifle the bloom of warmth within his breast, this fluttering sensation of love that was so inspired by this simple act. This closeness, this intoxicatingly gentle proximity… he could not want for more.

Letting his head fall forward, he pressed his mien to the Warrior's shoulder.

He could hear the crackling of the fireplace and the slow breaths of the Warrior, and he could feel the gentle thrumming of the Warrior's heart against his breast.

So ensconced within the crook of his neck and the cradle of his arms, Aymeric could feel some queer sensation inside of himself dissipate. Mayhap it was the remaining dredges of his insecurity, of his anxious worry concerning the viera's affection towards him. Regardless, it was there that he found a great measure of peace.

This moment lingered longer than he had expected.

The viera remained still against him, making not a single move to pull away.

Eventually, those broad hands upon his back slid down, following the curve of his spine and settling at the base of it. That descent had Aymeric tensing, arching away from the Warrior's hands reflexively—but they remained where they had stopped, moving not any further.

Pulling away enough to view his countenance, Aymeric could see the faintest traces of mirth within the viera’s crystalline gaze.

“Did you expect me to want more than this?” The viera asked, echoing his earlier words.

Aymeric could feel a measure of fluster inspired by the question, and he paused. “Yes, I did in fact,” he admitted a moment later. “I am aware that your relations with Haurchefant are… not entirely chaste.”

“They are not.” The Warrior agreed.

“I had assumed that because of this fact, you would have expected the same from me.”

The hands upon his back were removed, and the viera leaned back. Aymeric released him, allowing him to pull away.

Silence spanned across a multitude of minutes as the viera thought, eyes distant in contemplation.

“Not particularly,” was finally admitted. “Fucking Haurchefant is far more to his benefit than mine.” Aymeric jolted at his language—at his words. “He wants it. The physicality of it, or mayhap the act of mounting me.”

What an _image_ those words inspired.

Aymeric was speechless for a moment, unable to speak when such a vivid scene had been painted in his mind at his words.

“I… I must know, do you dislike the act?” He asked hesitantly, cheeks no doubt flushed red at the thought of the Warrior—and of their third, tangled together in an entirely unchaste manner. It was hard to tell what emotions such a thought elicited.

Was it envy? Yearning? Horror? Was it lust?

Aymeric averted his eyes, lest he reveal what convoluted feelings he felt to the viera.

The man shrugged before him. “I enjoy it well enough.” However, the blasé attitude suggested a minor distaste for the act… but mayhap it was due to his dislike for touch in general?

Aymeric turned to regard his lover once more, and became aware of the weight of the stare he was under, the viera watching him with considering eyes. However, the viera did not speak up, instead leaning back further to rest his back upon the settee fully.

And so they sat there, watching one another with the air heavy with words unsaid.

Aymeric eventually shifted, finding himself rather discomfitted by their silence. He hadn't a thought on how to continue their conversation, finding no clever way to make an opportunity to offer the viera his apologies for they were yet deserved. Had he Haurchefant's talent for words, or Lucia's bluntness, mayhap he could break this fragile silence.

He opened his mouth, closed it again. His hands came to rest upon his own lap, fingers curled into fists.

In stark contrast to the tension in his own body, the Warrior lay against the settee with a deceptive laxness to his limbs, his head slack against the cushions.

Finally, the viera spoke.

"Will you not continue?"

The crystalline gleam of his eyes were arresting, and Aymeric could not pull his gaze from them.

"Continue?" Aymeric echoed.

"Touching me."

Aymeric swallowed hard at his words.

The viera shifted up against the settee again, stretching himself out more, baring more of his body as if in invitation. The hem of his shirt rose enough to bare a sliver of his pale skin upon his waist.

"If you are not opposed to it," Aymeric said softly, his throat dry and his words all the more parched for it.

The viera inclined his head, and gestured briefly with his fingers.

And so, given his implicit permission, Aymeric carefully moved forth and he lay against his lover, pressed from hip to shoulder against his larger form.

The Warrior exhaled slowly, a quiet sigh that ruffled the hair upon his crown, and remained still.

Even when Aymeric stretched up to brush his fingers through his hair, he remained still, watching him with eyes most verdant and accepting his touch, allowing him to take liberties once more.

Soft was his hair though they were frost tipped, the curls yielding into relative straightness as Aymeric's fingers ran along his scalp. They sprung back upon being released, the gentle curls made riotous with his fondling.

The viera bowed his head, resting his mien against Aymeric's briefly, their foreheads kissing for a split second.

"This, I enjoy," came his quiet voice, breaking past the quiet crackling of the flames at the fireplace.

Was it their proximity? The fingers carding through his hair? Or mayhap the warmth of this room, made all the more homely by the press of their bodies against one another?

Regardless of what it was...

"I too shall admit that I full enjoy this." Aymeric thus continued, unable to hold back the wondrous smile from appearing upon his lips. "I should hope you will not object if we stay like this for a little longer?"

The viera nodded once more, his head rising and falling under his hand.

Aymeric smiled all the wider, and he leaned in, pressing his lips daringly to the Warrior's crown. Then, he settled once more upon the Warrior.

Under his ear, when Aymeric rested his head upon his chest, he could hear how his strong heart raced.

Mayhap, he thought distantly, the Warrior too was as affected as he was.

* * *

Aymeric must have fallen into a doze some time after that, for he later awoke in his chambers.

He stared up at the ornate ceiling of his chambers, eyes trailing over the detailed carvings hemming the walls, and pondered upon his situation.

He would not have been moved by any of his staff while asleep, for instead they would have roused him such that he could move under his own power; it could have only been the Warrior himself who had moved him from the sitting room. He also could not tell how long it had been since he had fallen asleep. Behind the blinds, the windows remained yet dark, but the Warrior was nowhere to be seen.

He spared a moment to wonder where the man had gone, but his attention was soon captured by this: the sight of the forgotten letter sent from Camp Dragonhead laying upon the end table by his bed.

In the dark of his chambers, he could make out not a detail of the letter beyond its crumpled shape and the darkened mass that should have bore the crisp wax details of Haurchefant's seal.

He sat up and reached out to light a single candle.

He winced at the brightness of the light, averting his eyes to regard the letter curiously. Indeed it was crumpled, a far cry him the usual neatness of sent letters. He pried open the wax seal, setting it to the side to begin his reading of the letter.

As ever, the correspondence was made up of multiple leaves of paper, each carefully marked on the corner as to their proper sequence. He picked up the first page, and raised it to the candlelight.

Aymeric could not stop his smile upon reading the first sentence, that effusive praise of his name and immediate proclamations of ardour.

 _To the illustrious and most wonderful Lord Commander,_ it read in Haurchefant's elaborate script, _of whom one could never enough praise, I hope this humble letter finds you well_.

He would have to remember to apologise to Haurchefant, whether or not verbally or by written word, for having ignored his letter for so long.

He lay back and continued to read in the fragile candlelight, learning of the happenings at the outpost both large and small, the idle musings of a lord rooted at his fort while his men patrolled the grounds. He read upon Haurchefant's latest attempts at breeding his chocobos, his delight at having discovered an entirely new trait he had never seen before.

 _Green eyes!_ had the lord wrote most spastically, words spiked with excitement. _I have yet to determine whether this is a trait that can be passed down, but if it is indeed heritable, mayhap we shall soon see a parade of emerald eyed steeds..._

Aymeric would have to recall to mention his amusement at the thought, and in just suggest naming this first green-eyed chocobo after their wayward viera.

The farther he read of the letter, the heavier his eyes became with lethargy once more. It was not the fault of the letter's contents as it was the lateness of the night. Mayhap it was closer to morning now, but Aymeric could tell not the time. Such was his tiredness that fluster did not become of him as he came to Haurchefant's sly words upon their shared kiss.

 _You have arrested me since that moment_ , was written in a careful hand, each written word bold and printed as if Haurchefant had spent many a minute thinking these sentences over. _The cold of this keep becomes hard to bear when I recall the sweet touch of your lips, and the sky's gleam of your gaze. Mayhap I recall wrongly the satin of your skin, but such sensations visit me nightly and haunt my waking mind. I ever yearn for the time when I shall return to your side, and to be able to partake in such a warmth once more. Will you allow me such liberties, Aymeric?_

Had he been less tired, Aymeric would have despaired at his ability to make so lewd an innocent act. Instead, he lay upon his bed, and he luxuriated in the knowledge that he was so honestly and greatly desired.

A warmth settled in the pit of his abdomen, growing, ever growing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aymeric de Borel, otherwise known as slowburn kink.  
> My teeth are rotting from how romantic he is.


	10. Burgeoining

The collection of letters between himself and the Lord Commander grew ever larger, but soon--it was joined by random scraps of parchment, each bearing the clumsy hand of the viera.

Haurchefant delighted in it far too much, beaming profusely whenever the viera deigned to hand over a crumpled scrap of parchment upon which was inked brief words in unpracticed calligraphy.

The first had been that simple writing of his own name. The second had been a most curt _Gone to Klaoudtop_ left pinned to his desk.

Haurchefant had, at first, stared at parchment in confusion. He hadn't a clue who, or what, or where, Klaoudtop was at the time. It hadn't been until he had read it aloud that he realised what had been meant. He had to stifle his laughter at the misspelled name, shaking his head as he stowed the parchment away.

Since then, the texts that the viera wrote for him continued to grow in complexity and content, and each letter became surer and more bold in confidence.

Though indubitably curious, Haurchefant had elected to ask not upon where he had begun to learn to write. Instead, he collected each text fastidiously, storing it away in its own box.

And now, the twin boxes he had commissioned to keep all of his letters were replete. His heart, too, was just as replete with amour, as day after day he grew closer to his two lovers. Aymeric, tender-hearted he with his shy affections, and the viera, obstinate and awkward in his attempts.

Every recollection of his memories with either of them could only but spark the thought that he was inordinately blessed by the Fury.

Despite the constant threat of heretics and Dravanian attacks, he was yet fortunate enough to be found in a position where he could freely love and have such love returned.

Not many could say they had such opportunities, lest of all a bastard of a noble house, of whom most would claim deserved naught for being born base and in sin.

* * *

It was a rare night that found them all in Ishgard at the same time.

Haurchefant had returned to the Pillars to report in person to his father, whereas the viera had returned from his recent expeditions into the Coerthan highlands--pursuit of heretics with Artoirel by his side, if Emmanellain's envious accounts were to be believed.

Haurchefant could only wish that he had joined the Warrior. Alas, he had his duty, and he was bound to fulfil it. Nevertheless, they all found themselves in fair Ishgard, and Aymeric had been swift to take advantage of this opportunity, inviting them both to his home.

So swiftly had he done this that the pageboy that had been sent to the Fortemps Manor bearing this message had interrupted Haurchefant in his recount.

Count Fortemps had sent him a look most searching when the young lad had shakily announced Aymeric's invitation, stealing glances at the grandeur of their family home all the while.

Haurchefant had gotten the impression that his father suspected something more in this invitation, when it would have otherwise come across as something friendly.

"I will not keep you from your engagements," his father had said finally. "Halone knows that you so rarely get to spend time with your fellows, stationed in Camp Dragonhead as you are. Do send the Lord Commander my well-wishes when you depart, would you?"

And so, Haurchefant had had the pageboy run off with his acceptance of the invitation, and hastily return to the recount of the front.

Pages upon pages of reports, accounts of the supplies at the Camp, the injuries and the salaries of the personnel--never before had duty ever felt such a _chore_ upon his shoulders.

Count Fortemps had seemed to note his impatience, and had laughed when Haurchefant set down the final page of his report with a relieved sigh.

"Go, Haurchefant," his father had bidden with an indulgent wave of his hand, “and enjoy yourself. Leave these papers for me to deal with. I shall take this as an opportunity to impress upon Emmanellain the importance of organisation.”

Unable to hide his grin, Haurchefant had been quick to quip back, "Of course! Give Em my condolences—and I shall take my leave then, my lord."

And thus, he set out from the manor to the sound of his father’s laughter. However, despite his eager haste, Haurchefant had been the last to arrive at the Borel manse.

No matter; he was determined to make the most of his time now that he was present.

He was shown into Aymeric's study by a quiet maid, wherein the Warrior was spied peering at book spines as the Lord Commander scribbled upon what seemed like endless sheaves of paper.

The maid announced his presence, before excusing herself promptly.

Despite that, Aymeric raised not his head beyond a quick glance in his direction and a distracted smile. So quick was this glance that Haurchefant could not glimpse the lovely colour of his eyes for even a second. This was followed by a belated, "hullo, Haurchefant—I will be just a moment."

In a rather jarring contrast, and one that seemed uncharacteristic of the man, the viera peeled away from the bookshelves to approach him.

Haurchefant closed the door to the study behind himself once the maid departed, and turned to beam at both the Warrior and the ever-busy Lord Commander. The viera had the faintest of smiles upon his countenance in return.

"Haurchefant." He was greeted quietly in a low voice.

In reply, the knight called out the Warrior's name with great warmth, reaching out to clasp his shoulder. "I'm glad to find you in such great health. Did you manage to find the elusive heretics you were searching for?" He then asked, tilting his head to the side.

The viera frowned ever so slightly.

"Nay. The snow set in ere we could track them to their hideaway,” the Warrior confessed, irritation evident in the furrow of his brows.

Doubtlessly, the viera was most upset that he could not track the heretics; however, even the best hunters could be thwarted by the elements. It seemed Halone Herself wished to hide them away.

Would it be the height of selfishness to wonder if She had done this, such that he could spend his night with both of his lovers? Mayhap so.

“You shall have another opportunity soon, I daresay,” Haurchefant placated with a smile. “The heretics always chance at intercepting the supply caravans as they come to Ishgard.”

The viera nodded once, and turned away from him. The action forced Haurchefant to release his shoulder, but he relinquished his grip willingly, allowing the other to draw away, back to the bookshelves where he could enjoy physical solitude.

Nevertheless, Haurchefant let out a dramatic sigh.

"Near a moon apart, and he deigns to look at me not even once," he exclaimed dramatically, pitching his voice loudly. "Whatever shall I do about this injury to my heart?”

The viera snorted where he stood, lips still curled into a smile.

Where he sat, Aymeric let out a sigh of his own. The scratch of his quill ceased, and he finally set down the lanner’s feather into its rest.

“Mayhap calling a chirurgeon may be for the best,” Aymeric replied with humour imbuing his voice. He rose from his seat with an audible groan. Clearly, he had been sitting for quite some time, as he stiffly stretched, his back emanating a series of rather concerning sounds as he did so.

Haurchefant winced in sympathy. "Are you certain that you are not the one in need of a physicker?" He asked.

Aymeric strode over to him, his features set into something soft and jovial. “Nay. Seeing you is balm enough to whatever ails I may have.”

Such a comment was unexpected. Haurchefant could feel himself flush at the amorous words, and he cleared his throat in an attempt to regain his composure. Up close, the blue of Aymeric’s eyes were resplendent, as azure as the ocean doubtlessly was though Haurchefant had never had opportunity to bear witness to such a sight. 

“I hadn’t taken you to be the romantic out of the three of us,” Haurchefant said finally.

Aymeric let out a laugh. “I could not let you outshine me in this ere I had even made mine own attempt. Shall I take your comment as evidence that I am succeeding?”

Haurchefant smiled, and reached out to gently cup Aymeric’s countenance within his palm. The Lord Commander’s eyes widened, but he stayed put, even leaning into his touch fully.

“Yes, you may. It is… good to see you again, Aymeric,” he murmured softly.

Aymeric’s eyes lowered bashfully, and demurely, he replied in a quiet voice: “Aye. It has been far too long.”

* * *

And so they were seated once more in the comfortable study of Aymeric's home, each holding a cup of their preferred drink: Haurchefant and the viera both had a mug of chocolate, whereas Aymeric had his so-called tea.

As ever, the viera lay cozily by the fireplace, his feet all but within the burning logs with how closely he huddled to the flames. Aymeric sat near to him upon a reading chair, seated in a manner most dignified despite his boots having been unlaced and set aside to allow himself to curl his legs beneath himself. Haurchefant, in comparison, had taken up residence upon a settee surrounded by a mountain of cushions that he had gathered from the various chairs in the room.

Mayhap he had been overzealous in his pursuit of comfort, but Haurchefant would regret not his decision as he sank into the plushness of the cushions, near-prostrate upon his stomach.

A comfortable silence had settled over them after they had exchanged their habitual pleasantries and situated themselves in their respective positions. However, such a silence demanded to be broken. Who better than Haurchefant to do so?

He grinned over the brim of his cup, peering at Aymeric from across the room.

"How fares the syrup to-night, Aymeric?" He asked innocently. "I should hope that it is sufficiently saccharine enough for our sweet Lord Commander."

Aymeric paused, his cup raised halfway to his lips. For a brief moment, he looked most chagrined, and he set his cup back down decisively. The blush that settled upon his cheeks was most becoming.

"It fares _exceedingly_ well," the Lord Commander replied stiffly. "Thank you for asking."

The viera raised his head, the slightest hint of curiosity upon his lovely countenance. He sat up, abandoning his mug to shuffle closer to the Lord Commander.

Aymeric, noticing his approach, tucked his legs under himself more tightly, as if to spare the Warrior any possible chance of coming into contact with his skin.

"Allow me a taste,” the Warrior demanded when his knees had touched the legs of Aymeric’s chair and his hand rested upon the seat by his thighs.

Haurchefant watched how Aymeric hesitated before presenting his cup to the Warrior. As ever, he could not resist the opportunity to incite and to provoke, and he raised his voice, “Would you not taste it from his lips instead?”

Aymeric promptly turned pink, while the viera looked over at him curiously.

“It—is not…” came the expected protestations from the Lord Commander.

“Proper?” Haurchefant suggested idly, smiling.

“The Warrior,” the Lord Commander continued, shaking his head. “I, I am not sure if…”

The viera rose to his knees, and looked up towards Aymeric with an ambiguous look upon his chiselled countenance. “I would not mind,” he stated simply.

Knelt there, the viera was painted a patient image, head turned towards the knight most pious and virtuous as if in supplication. A wondrous image, for sure, and Haurchefant watched most raptly.

However, Aymeric continued to flounder there, seemingly caught equally between his propriety, his own shyness of affection, and his perceptions on the viera’s dislike for touch.

“We have kissed before. Will you not share such an act with the Warrior?” Haurchefant asked curiously. “I would have assumed, since you have harboured affections for longer for our dearest…”

Aymeric pursed his lips, and he let out a slow exhale.

Then, rather abruptly, he raised his cup to his lips to take a long draught of his tea-laced syrup.

Lowering the cup once more, a determined expression had made itself known upon his fair countenance, and he lifted his chin in what should have been a brash manner, had it not been for the nervous tremor of his hands.

“A taste, was it?” Aymeric asked.

The viera murmured softly, “And naught more.”

Haurchefant watched as he reached up, taking hold of Aymeric by the back of his head, strong fingers curled into his black locks. He watched how willingly Aymeric was pulled down, and how softly their lips met.

And oh, how his chest swelled with affection at the sight!

Could one feel absolution in the sight of his two lovers partaking in amour without him? Surely one could. Haurchefant could think of aught else that could make him happier than seeing this:

How Aymeric near melted into the Warrior’s touch, his cup listing to the side most dangerously in his lax grip. How the Warrior slowly moved up from his knelt position to lean over Aymeric, hand yet gripping him by his hair. And finally this, how Aymeric let out a scandalised gasp and muted curses as he spilt his tea over their laps, causing them to spring to their feet and apart.

Haurchefant let out his laughter, tears springing to his eyes as Aymeric hastily mopped up the syrupy mess from the chair with a doily, the viera looking down at his own stained trousers with a bland stare.

He was not one to let opportunity for jest to pass him by.

“I thought you offered the Warrior a taste, my friend, not your pantalons?” The knight near-sung, grin widening.

Aymeric shot him a harried glance, still pawing at the chair with the soaked cloth. “Nay, I did not. But you are _not_ being helpful right now, Haurchefant,” was stated.

The Warrior, however, seemed unaffected by the jest. “It was sweet,” he remarked unhurriedly. “—I will go change.”

“As will I. Once I’ve ascertained that no lasting damage has been done to my chair,” Aymeric said. Finally, a thread of humour appeared upon his lips. “And since you saw fit to mock it—Haurchefant, you shall be paying to replace whatever cannot be repaired.”

Haurchefant gasped in faux horror, raising a hand to his chest. “By Halone—let us hope that all can be repaired! As one that is but a lowly knight, I could hardly scrounge the coin to replace anything in this most noble house of Borel.”

“Then you shall have to place yourself in my debt and pray that I shall not be a harsh debtor,” Aymeric replied. Finally, he stopped scrubbing at the chair, looking at the stain with resignation written in his body.

A soft chuckle left the viera as he moved towards the door of Aymeric’s study. “Be kind to the pest,” was all the Warrior said ere he left.

Haurchefant looked over at Aymeric, who looked back at him. Aymeric’s brows had risen.

“What have you done to warrant being called a pest?” The Lord Commander asked, moving over to Haurchefant’s side. “Surely this singular event is not enough to deserve such a name.”

A moue appeared upon Haurchefant’s lips. “How do you know he was not speaking of yourself?” He retorted though without much emphasis.

Aymeric smiled. “It is because I am most certainly a fool, not a pest.”

And once more, Haurchefant laughed, tipping his head back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soft boys having soft kisses give me life.

**Author's Note:**

> Winks and shamelessly promotes the Azem fanzine, The Sun's Journey, that I'm modding @ [FFXIVAzemZine](https://twitter.com/FFXIVAzemZine). Applications are closed, but please await future news!
> 
> I'm also found on Twitter @ [nymmiah](https://twitter.com/nymmiah), where I occasionally upload sketches and ideas.


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